While you slept I went for breakfast, your body
brown and voluptuous under the small Gauguin.
Theyíve cut the young trees to knee height
along your road. I surprise a pheasant.
The deer that lay last night beneath the pine
is gone: slaughtered for venison or stumbling
among the birches. Contrary to prediction,
it rains. I drive without wipers, trusting
to luck. A uniform stops me on 53. We both know
itís a warning -- the rented car, my out-of-state
license -- the crow on the elm branch shakes
itself like a wet dog. I canít remember
if youíve eaten camembert, but you say youíll start
with strawberries, taste it later on my skin.
A volume of Foucault grins open
on the bedspread. I place it on the shelf
between the Bible and Grayís Anatomy.
We have only a day to fashion our history.